


oh, you're the one i had to meet

by sunsetpanic



Series: carry me home [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, abandoned, more crack, porn with plot (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetpanic/pseuds/sunsetpanic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s a model in our living room asking for you,” Danny says, poking his head through Stiles’ bedroom door.</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/448612/chapters/768363">i was looking for a hooker (when i found you)</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, you're the one i had to meet

**Author's Note:**

> write a sequel they said
> 
> it'll be fun they said
> 
> edit: I ran out of time, inspiration, and general ability on this one--thank you all for your kind comments, and I'm very sorry! Tagged as 'abandoned'--glad to try to sketch out what I kind of thought might happen next for anyone who's interested.

“There’s a model in our living room asking for you,” Danny says, poking his head through Stiles’ bedroom door. He manages to sound simultaneously resigned and curious; Stiles doesn’t know anyone else who’s capable of that. He thinks it might be a skill particular to Danny. 

Stiles spins around in his desk chair, abandoning an essay he hadn’t been paying much attention to anyway. “A model,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “By which you mean...” 

“An incredibly attractive man,” Danny says patiently. “Who I’m going to guess you’ve been expecting, going by the way you’ve been acting since you got home this morning.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes. “I resent the implication that I’ve been anything less than my usual dignified self today,” he says, scowling. He’s maybe been a little jumpier than usual, but that’s normal, right? And, okay, so he’s kind of nervous. For many very good reasons, most of them named ‘Derek’. And oh god, Stiles doesn’t even know his last name. And Derek doesn’t know Stiles’; they don’t know _anything_ about each other. This is going to be a record-breakingly bad date. 

Some of it must show on Stiles’ face, because Danny starts to look at him like Stiles is a baby animal in one of the YouTube videos Danny’s always denying he watches obsessively. Stiles makes a face at him that he hopes conveys maturity and dignity. He’s pretty sure he fails. 

“Not that I’m asking any kind of question about your sex life,” Danny says, “but does this have anything to do with the card I got for you?” 

Stiles fidgets in his chair. “No?” he says, and then, hastily, “Sort of. Not really. It’s a long and wildly improbable story that you probably wouldn’t believe anyway.” 

Danny arches an eyebrow and leans against the doorway. He must be genuinely curious, Stiles thinks; he usually gives up after about fifteen seconds of babble from Stiles. “I knew you in high school, Stiles,” he says. “You’re a wildly improbable guy. Try me.” 

“Ithoughthewasanescortandthenwehadsex,” Stiles says in one breath, and adds, “And he’s not one and now we’re having dinner.” 

Danny stares at him, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “Of course,” he says. “The old fake hooker story. Oldest one in the book. Only you, Stiles.” 

Stiles grins back at him and lets himself hope—just a little, because hope’s always been a prologue to disappointment for him, and he doesn’t want whatever this is with Derek to go down that path. “Only me,” he agrees. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Danny tells him, his voice fond. “Now get out there.” 

Stiles salutes him and grabs his jacket, doing his best to ignore the anxiety that’s gathering at the pit of his stomach. 

* * *

Danny and Stiles put up a few photos when they moved in, one of their few weak stabs at home decor—old family stuff, mostly, and a few more current ones. Derek’s standing in front of a picture of a five-year-old Stiles and his mom when Stiles comes in. “You look like her,” he says by way of greeting, gesturing at the photo. Stiles is beginning to suspect that Derek is maybe a little socially awkward; it’s bizarrely cute. It’s probably a bad sign that Stiles thinks that. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and then, “She died when I was eight,” because he apparently lives to kill the moment. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says carefully. People always are when they find out just why Stiles' mom isn't around; he can’t fault them that. It’s a touchy subject, and the hole his mom left in his life when she died still tugs at him sometimes. 

He shrugs, tries to brush it off. “It was a long time ago,” he says. 

Derek makes a soft noise and pulls Stiles in, brushing a kiss against his temple. There’s something weirdly familiar about the gesture; it’s comfortable in a way they shouldn’t be, yet, and Stiles almost thinks— 

But that’s impossible, he met Derek yesterday, and a few half-remembered dreams don’t really mean anything. He smiles lopsidedly at Derek, pushing the thought away for now. “So, dinner,” he says. 

* * *

Derek drives a Camaro; Stiles spends most of the drive failing completely at not thinking about what making out in it would be like, which renders him more or less useless in terms of navigation. 

They drive around aimlessly for awhile and end up crammed into a tiny booth in a weird little cafe a few blocks away from Stiles’ apartment, staring blankly at each other. It’s every horrible, awkward first date Stiles has ever had, and oh god, what if this is a huge mistake and Stiles made up Derek’s good qualities out of whole cloth and hormones? 

All the worries that Stiles managed to suppress up to now come flooding back to him. He fidgets in his seat, jittering his leg up and down and shredding his napkin into tiny pieces. Next he’ll find a pencil to gnaw on, just to really make sure Derek knows what a complete spaz Stiles is. 

Derek finally huffs out a sigh and traps Stiles’ ankle between his calves, stilling it. Stiles freezes and tries to make a face that doesn’t look like a stunned rabbit. “I’m not good at this,” he admits, looking away. “I don’t really date, and between work and family I don’t get out as much as I should. I guess it shows.” 

Some of the tension that’s been lying heavy between them lifts, and Stiles relaxes a little. He arches an eyebrow at Derek and opens his mouth to say something skeptical re: Derek and not dating much, because _come on_ , then reconsiders. “Me either, apparently,” he says finally instead. “Sorry about—everything.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Derek says. “And don’t be nervous.” 

“I’m not nervous,” Stiles says. It’s not a total lie; at least he doesn’t feel like running out the door anymore. Much. Derek arches an eyebrow, aiming a glance pointedly down in the general direction of Stiles’ leg, still trapped between Derek’s calves and somehow still tapping. “Okay, yes, maybe a little nervous,” he says. 

Derek leans in, pitches his voice low. “I’ll just have to distract you, then,” he says, and gets up and moves over to Stiles’ side of the booth, leaning in and sliding a hand up Stiles’ thigh. _High_ up Stiles’ thigh.“Stay still,” he murmurs, palming Stiles’ cock. Stiles’ hips jerk up without his permission, and he bites down on a moan. His pants are suddenly way, way too tight. He’s not nervous anymore; he’s pretty sure he’s going to get arrested for public indecency if Derek keeps this up, though. 

Still, Stiles is nothing if not eloquent under pressure. “Jesus fuck,” he says, and then their waitress is there and oh god Derek’s unzipping his fly and wrapping long fingers around Stiles’ cock. Stiles glances down quickly, just to confirm, and lets out a poorly—hidden sigh of relief when he sees the tablecloth there, effectively hiding Derek’s hand and Stiles’ lap from view. 

It’s effective; Stiles thinks it might be _too_ effective, given the dubious look he gets from their waitress when he can’t remember what he wanted to order and just rattles a few random menu items off. Derek, the bastard, is totally composed through the whole thing, 

Stiles lets out a shaky laugh after their waitress finally leaves, shooting a suspicious glance at them as she walks away. “Congratulations,” he says to Derek. “Consider me distracted.” 

“Good,” Derek says, his lips warm where they’re brushing against Stiles’ ear. He starts to jack Stiles off, long lazy pulls that leave Stiles shaking. “You’re so fucking hot like this,” he says. “All worked up, trying so hard to stay quiet.” 

Stiles can’t hold back a low groan in response to that. He’s flushed and dangerously close to falling apart completely, wet with precome as his hips stutter up into Derek’s hand. Derek’s got a rhythm going now, an easy slide that’s still nowhere near enough. 

“You want to take this outside?” Derek asks quietly, his voice significantly rougher than Stiles remembers it being a few minutes ago. Stiles manages a nod. 

They somehow manage to get Stiles more or less presentable (well, they get his pants zipped, anyway) and stumble out the door, just barely remembering to toss a few bills on the table. Their waitress calls after them as they leave, and Stiles giggles a little hysterically. “We’re never going to be able to come back here,” he says. 

Derek smiles a little as he pulls out his keys to unlock the car. “Did you want to?” he asks. “Mostly I want to _get out of here_ ,” Stiles says, sliding into the passenger seat. “I saw an alley on the way here,” he suggests hopefully. He might die if he has to wait until they get back to the apartment. 

“Point taken,” Derek says, and peels out of the lot. 

* * *

The alley’s dark and full of suspiciously rat-shaped shadows, but it’s also completely deserted. Derek’s climbing into the back seat when Stiles gets out. “More room,” he explains in response to Stiles’ questioning look. 

It takes a little while to get themselves configured in the Camaro’s (admittedly roomy) backseat. Stiles ends up straddling Derek, Derek’s hands tight on Stiles’ hips as he works to get their pants undone. It takes way longer than it should, mostly because Derek keeps nipping at Stiles’ neck and stroking up Stiles’ back and just generally making the best kind of nuisance of himself. 

Derek regains focus with a vengeance when Stiles is done, though, and thankgod wraps a hand around Stiles’ cock, pulling Stiles’ hand to his own at the same time. He’s just as hard as Stiles is—Stiles has no idea why that’s a surprise to him “I keep thinking,” he says, not bothering to keep his voice quiet now that they’re in (near) privacy, “about how you’d look with your lips wrapped around my cock.” 

Stiles swallows hard; he’s had more than a few thoughts about that himself in the few hours they’ve been apart today. “Later,” he says, and listens to his voice break on the promise. “Just—please, Derek, come on, I’m dying here.” 

When Derek touches Stiles this time, it’s not slow or gentle; it’s almost desperate, his strokes hard and rough and perfect, and Stiles gives as good as he gets. 

Derek comes first, groaning lowly, come spurting thickly over Stiles’ hand. And his pants, which should be gross but really, really isn’t. Stiles closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Derek’s shoulder. He shoves up urgently into Derek’s hand, white flashing behind his eyelids, and comes. 

* * *

Danny’s gone when they get back, and Stiles sends up a silent prayer of thanks. Danny’s an awesome roommate, but he’s also way, way too observant, and Stiles is pretty sure what he and Derek just got up to would be obvious to a coma patient. In space. 

Stiles lets Derek go ahead of him and then stands in his doorway, watching Derek explore his room. Doubt floods back into him; it’s entirely possible that last night and today were just flukes. Derek’s going to see the longboxes full of comics shoved under Stiles’ bed and the stacks of old sci-fi novels on his shelves and run for the proverbial hills. He tries not to think about it—if Derek leaves, well. He wouldn’t be the first person who’s been scared off by Stiles’ poorly-hidden geekiness. At least Stiles hid his Warhammer 40K miniatures before he left. 

“You like Bradbury,” Derek says finally, running a hand over the copy of _Something Wicked This Way Comes_ on Stiles’ bedside table. He sounds oddly pleased. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “You, too?” He finally makes it out of the doorway, moving to stand beside Derek. 

Derek crooks a grin at Stiles. “You sound surprised,” he says. “I think I’m offended.” 

“No!” Stiles says hastily. “Not surprised, just...well, okay, surprised. You—people who look like you generally don’t...” He claps a hand over his mouth. “You need to not let me talk right now,” he says. He closes his eyes and waits for Derek to leave, or punch Stiles. Possibly both. 

A warm hand closes over Stiles’ wrist, forcing his hand down from his mouth. “I like it when you talk,” Derek says. 

When Stiles opens his eyes, Derek’s right there, close enough for Stiles to feel the heat radiating off of him. “That’s an official first for me,” Stiles says shakily. “And I can guarantee that you’ll regret saying it pretty soon.” He winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth; _good job, Stiles_ , he thinks ruefully. _It doesn’t count as a romantic failure if you kill it before it’s a romance, right?_

Bizarrely, Derek’s mouth flattens almost angrily in response to that, but his hands are careful when he touches Stiles. He tugs Stiles in, maneuvering the two of them so Stiles’ back is flush against the wall. He slides one hand under the waistband of Stiles’ jeans and sweeps the other up from one of Stiles’ arms to his neck, trailing curious fingers up Stiles’ collarbone to his mouth and leaving him shivering, wanting. “Can I?” he asks, tugging at the hem of Stiles’ shirt. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and then promptly forgets whatever else it was he had meant to say in favor of arching up into the slide of Derek’s hands on his bare skin as he pulls Stiles’ t-shirt up over his head and tosses it—somewhere. He watches raptly as Derek pulls his own shirt off, throwing it to the same black hole Stiles’ shirt probably just disappeared into. 

“Are these sensitive?” Stiles asks curiously, circling a thumb around one of Derek’s nipples. He leans down and scrapes his teeth along it gently, grinning when Derek hisses and leans into the touch. Everything still feels off, somehow, like Stiles is a piece of a puzzle that hasn’t been solved yet, and he thinks that if he could just get close enough to Derek he might be able to fix that. He grabs Derek’s arm and pulls him over to the bed. Derek goes down easy, landing on his back and taking Stiles with him. 

They lie there for a while, trading unhurried kisses and touching lazily. 

“I don’t actually know anything about you,” Stiles says eventually. He’s not worried by it, not now, but he wants to know: wants to know what Derek likes, what he hates, what he does. Who he is. 

“What do you want to know?” Derek asks easily. 

Stiles hums against his shoulder, thinking. “Favorite movie,” he says. “And where the hell do you live, anyway?” 

“Bull Durham,” Derek says. “I live in town, but my family lives about fifty miles west of here, hence the hotel. My turn: what’s your real name?” 

“Nice try,” Stiles says. “No one knows that. I’m considering burning my birth certificate, just to keep it a total secret.” 

Derek smirks. “I’ll get it out of you,” he says, half joking. “We have—” 

“If that joke ends in a bad Russian accent, I will _end you_ ,” Stiles threatens, rolling over so he’s on top of Derek. “End you.” 

“We should probably eat,” Derek says a few minutes later, after an impromptu wrestling bout. Stiles is pretty sure Derek cheated; groping is almost certainly against some kind of rule. But he can’t bring himself to care; Derek is wrapped around Stiles, and Stiles is ready to disagree—he’d be okay with staying here forever, right now—when he suddenly remembers that he skipped dinner. And lunch. And breakfast. 

“Ice cream,” he decides. 

* * *

Derek turns out to be a vanilla man (“It’s classic,” he says defensively when Stiles gives him an incredulous look). Stiles gets the most ridiculous flavor in the store (it’s French Toast today, his third favorite). 

“ _Try_ it,” Stiles says, shoving his cone at Derek. “Jesus, do you only get the plain potato chips too?” 

“They’re the best kind,” Derek says matter-of-factly. He takes the cone from Stiles, though. “This is good,” he says, scowling at the cone like it’s somehow wronged him. 

“Yes,” Stiles says. “So are barbecue potato chips, you weirdo.” 

The bell over the shop’s door jingles. Stiles glances up, curious; he and Derek are the only people in the shop right now. The other customer is a woman a few years older than Stiles—maybe more than a few, he’s not sure. She’s gorgeous in a dangerous way, all sharp angles and sleek curves, and she’s staring at Stiles and Derek. And it looks, bizarrely, like she’s heading straight for their booth. 

He shrugs and turns back to Derek, but Derek doesn’t notice. He’s busy glaring back at the woman, teeth bared. The sad remains of Stiles’ ice cream are running down his fingers from where he crushed the cone; he doesn’t seem to notice. Stiles thinks he hears a growl coming from low in Derek’s chest, too, and okay. He’s officially unnerved. 

“Uh,” he says, “Derek?” 

“Don’t talk, Stiles,” Derek says, still staring at the woman, and yeah, that’s definitely a growl. Stiles draws a breath, anger building in his chest. Derek finally looks at him, then, and Stiles snaps his mouth shut when he sees Derek’s expression. It’s not anger, not entirely. 

It’s fear. 

“Look at you two,” a voice says, and Stiles jerks his head around. He’s not surprised to find her standing beside the booth. “Just like a Precious Moments figurine,” she says, a sneer in her voice. 

“We’re on neutral ground, Kate,” Derek says. “Just what do you think your brother would say if you broke the treaty now?” 

“So this is him,” Incredibly Creepy Kate says sweetly, ignoring Derek’s (incredibly cryptic) words in favor of flicking a dismissive glance at Stiles. “He’s cute, Derek. You could do better, of course, but then you don’t have much of a choice. Do you?” 

Stiles stares up at her. “And who the hell are you?” he asks. It’s not much of a question, but it’s a start, and he’s not sure he wants to ask her anything else. 

She smiles at Stiles, sharp and predatory. Stiles stares back at her steadily, dread pooling in his stomach, and tries not to think about sharks. “I’m Kate,” she says. “I’m surprised Derek didn’t mention me before. We’re old friends, he and I.” She transfers the smile to Derek. He stares back at her, mouth set in a grim line. 

“We were _never_ friends,” he says, and then, to Stiles, “Don’t listen to her. Please.” 

“Oh, I think he should,” Kate says. “You still haven’t told him about your little secret, have you? He has no idea what he’s in for.” 

Derek’s halfway to his feet, his hands clenching the table so hard that Stiles is honestly a little worried that it’s going to break. “That,” he says, “Is none. Of your business.” 

“Ooh, so _masterful_ ,” Kate coos, delighted. She looks like she’s about half a second away from patting Derek on the head. “I bet that’s a lot of fun in bed, huh? The claws must be a _bitch_ , though. That’s the downside to dating a monster, I guess,” she says to Stiles. Her tone is conspiratorial, like she and Stiles are in on a secret , and it’s somehow absolutely _terrifying_. 

“Derek, we’re leaving.” Stiles says it carefully, keeps his tone neutral, because Kate is _dangerous_. He’s gotten good at recognizing that, over the years— it’s one of the many dubious perks of being a cop’s kid. He can make out the tell-tale lines of a gun holster underneath her fitted jacket, and Kate doesn’t strike Stiles as someone who would ask questions first and shoot later. Derek growls low in his throat, but he lets Stiles pull him out of the booth and past Kate, who steps aside and lets them go with a jaunty wave. Too easy, Stiles thinks, and hates himself a little for the cliche. 

I’m sure I’ll be seeing you boys again soon,” Kate calls after them. 

“Not if I can help it,” Derek mutters. He slants a look at Stiles. “I was going to tell you. Just. Later,” he says. 

"Awesome," Stiles says. "What were you going to tell me? Because so far I've got monsters, treaties, and terrifying women with guns, and all of those kind of add up to a dangerous situation to me." 

Derek sighs. "We should probably do this at the hotel," he says, and Stiles winces a little in sympathy at the misery in Derek's tone. "You'll have questions about all this that I'm probably not the best person to answer." 

“Hotel it is,” Stiles says with a little trepidation. He takes a deep breath and pulls Derek towards the car for what promises to be the strangest conversation of Stiles’ life.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Wanderlust', by Metric.
> 
> Thanks to scikopathik for the beta. And for taking a walk with me at like 2 am to plot this ridiculous thing out. And for being generally and specifically the absolute best.
> 
> Also, PSA: Camaros are actually notorious for their tiny (and awful) backseats. Derek apparently bought the Doctor Who edition.


End file.
